What You Want Me To Be
by xXLadyDecemberXx
Summary: Worlds collide between the Mob, the Police & the Civilians are stuck in the middle. With everyone's secrets, it's hard to know exactly which side everyone is on. So many people just end up putting on a mask, a different face for every person they know. Friend, lover, boss, enemy. But when worlds collide, masks get shuffled and secrets come to the surface. Slash, multi pairings. AU.


**A/N:** Hello our lovely readers, yes, this is indeed our first co-authored story together and I think it will be quite interesting.

This story is an AU.

This story includes lots of 2p! characters, so if that's not something you're okay with then please, don't continue from this point on. Some of the characters bounce back and forth between 1p and 2p. We're kind of just getting the hang of things and playing around with a lot of different concepts and ideas, so please bare with us.

There will be multiple pairings as well, so expect a lot.

**Co-authored by: C1nd3r5 **

**Summary:** Worlds collide between the Mob, the Police, and the Civilians are stuck in the middle. With everyone's secrets, it's hard to know exactly which side everyone is on. So many people just end up putting on a mask, a different face for every person they know. Friend, lover, boss, enemy. But when worlds collide, masks get shuffled and secrets come to the surface. It's best to watch your back, or else you might end up with a knife in it. AU.

**Pairings:** GerIta, USUK, Spamano, DenNor, SuFin, PruCan (and probably MANY more!)

**Potential Triggers:** Blood, torture, pain, abuse

**Reviews, favorites and follows keep us inspired!**

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**WHAT YOU WANT ME TO BE**

**Chapter One**

**Facade**

"Fratello, stop, per favore, st-"

"I told you to keep quiet!"

"Ma, Fratello…"

"Basta, idiota!"

"Ma-"

"Basta."

"Listen-"

"Basta!"

"Fra-"

"BASTA!"

I hit the ground as his fist connects, slamming into my cheek with rattling force. The carpet is rough against my uninjured cheek, and it scratches at my palms as I push myself to a sitting position. I move my jaw about, checking to make sure nothing is damaged as I hold my cheek. It stings, but it's hardly the worse injury I've gotten.

"Bastardo," Fratello swears, "Look what you made me do." He drops to his knees and pulls my face towards his, his slim rough fingers shoving my hand out of the way to start pushing and probing at my cheek. "This will bruise for sure." He grabs my hair, yanking it out of the way, tugging roughly at the roots as he turns my head back and forth, examining the dark mark forming in the poor light.

I bite my tongue to keep myself from yelping in pain. A little too hard, as the blood starts to pool in my mouth. But I keep my mouth closed as I swallow. Fratello hates it when I get blood on everywhere. Too messy. Unprofessional. Just something else someone can use to follow back to us. To ruin everything we've worked so hard to create.

"You can't do anything right, can you." He clicks his tongue as he pinches at my cheek, noting the way the color vanishes and then rushes back with the release of my skin. Both of us are fully aware that his remark was simply that, and not a question. Because he's correct. I can't do anything right, I couldn't protect fratello, and I can't protect myself. I don't even know why I'm here, except maybe to provide an alibi. We're identical, after all. If no one knows that there's two of us, we can do anything. Anything we want.

Or so he says.

Fratello gets to his feet, but he doesn't let go, forcing me to stumble to my feet as well as we go up, and up, and up together.

He releases me abruptly when we finish straightening, and I stumble backwards.

But Fratello stops me, wrapping his arms around me, and tucking his chin into the crook of my neck. It's such a humane move, it's all I can do to keep from thrusting him away in shock. He used to do things like this all the time. Not anymore. I somehow manage not to flinch as his fingers start to rub the open wounds on my back.

Shallow, like always. Enough to make an impression, he says, enough to teach a lesson, but not deep enough to scar. It would give the wrong impression.

We wouldn't want that. Might make people think we're human or something.

His hands roam about my head, one ghosting along my profile, so much like his, the other reaching up to tangle roughly in my hair. Then his hand covers my eyes, a blindfold of flesh that blocks out the tiny amount of light in the room. I just wait, patiently, doing my best not to squirm as my eyelashes brush against the palm of his hand. I stand still as a statue, hoping for the best.

"Mio fratello," he murmurs, the soft hum of his voice vibrating through my bones, "Perché? Why must you make me punish you? You know it displeases me."

"Scusami, Fratello." I do know. I bring my own hands up to tangle in his locks of hair, caressing them, petting them as the flavor of iron only increases in my mouth. I swallow. "Scusami, per favore. Mi dispiace, mi dispiace..."

"Idiota," he scoffs, thrusting me away. I can see once more, and I watch as he pulls out a knife. I watch as he tilts it, letting the light run along the keen edge of the blade, razor sharp from this evening's sharpening. It was one of the ones that his friend had gotten him, fancy blade, keeps an edge very well...even when suffering the abuse Fratello puts it through.

"Fratello, per favore-" I shouldn't beg. He hates that. Things go worse for me when I beg for him to stop.

"Shut up." He flings the blade against the wall, not even looking where it's going.

But I look. I stare as it catches the feeble light, sparkling against the keen blade. I watch as it hits Nonno's bookshelf and sticks, quivering in the mahogany wood. Kiku will kill him for that if he ever finds out. Stuff like that is the reason Fratello goes through so many blades. Pristine edges, perfectly folded to make the steal nigh impossible to break. And he treats them like common trick knives. I suppose we can afford to. That's one of the perks of our situation. We have the money for him to treat them however he wants. Or rather, he does.

"Punch me."

"Che?"

Fratello turns his cheek towards me, the same one that he marked on my face.

"I said punch me, idiota." He smirks at me, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Don't tell me that you don't want to, mio fratello. Be a man. Punch me. Remember, we must look identical, if we want this all to work."

I can't.

"Do it."

I can't hurt him. Fratello and Nonno...they're all I've got.

"I gave you an order."

I won't!

"Fratello!"

He reels back as my fist makes contact.

Oh no.

I pull my hand back and cradle it.

I did it.

One of his elegant hands come up to finger his matching mark, rubbing it lightly, tracing the outer reaches of the forming bruise.

I brace myself for retaliation.

But he only grins, he only grins and chuckles at me.

"Bene, fratello. Molto bene." He grabs me by my collar and pulls me under his arm, running his free hand through my hair as he leads me over to the bookshelf. "Very good."

His grin never meets his eyes.

… _**... … … ...**_

When Gil first suggested his friend for this piece, I thought he was joking. My brother's friends are hardly...well, noble figures. They all have remarkable bone structure, though, and it shows up very well through my lenses.

Especially this one.

I make a mental note to remember his name and number. He'll probably be a good person to keep around. His light blond hair shines almost white under my special fluorescent bulbs hanging precisely overhead at different spirling lengths, which also make the stretch of his pale and flawless skin across his sharp collarbone and equally sharp and angular hip bones glow. Lukas looks brilliant with the blank backdrop behind him, making him the only true focus in the shot. He is a haunting figure and I am hoping that my camera will be able to capture that aspect to the full effect.

I look up over my camera at my model, who hasn't even moved an inch since I stationed him there.

"Take a break," I say, my voice echoing from off of the dark hardwood floor in the open room in the once silence. If there's one thing my teacher told me to always remember, it's to be mindful of the models. Happy models make for faster sessions, and more time if necessary to redo the pictures.

I had been silently wondering if the two were actually friends, since Lukas looks like he'd murder Gil after one wrong move, with a straight and hard face and all. It just seems highly unlikely that they are anything but acquaintances at best.

But somehow East had gotten him here for me. And true to form, he's exactly who I needed. It's not fair that my brother has such an easy time picking models.

As Lukas nods and starts to stretch, Gil approaches me from where he'd been sitting quietly on a high stood that he dragged over to one of my desks, making just the right amount of noise to ensure that I know he's behind me, so I'm not surprised.

"So," I can hear the smirk in his voice, "Am I right or am I right?"

I don't respond or even make a move to look in his direction. He needs no encouragement from me. Any praise is equivalent to giving him permission to strut like a eagle. No, like a monkey. No. Oh bother, what's the phrase again?

"I'm almost done," I say to both of them, while absentmindedly cleaning a small smudge that my finger left on the camera lense with a single square of soft cloth. "Just a few more solo scenes and you can leave. I can let you know when I find the model for the prince."

I look up in time to see the lithe blonde model give a curt nod as he crosses his arms over his slim bare chest, silently adding to his unapproachable aura. He doesn't seem too interested in the conversation, obviously ready to begin again. Lukas blankly stares past me and out of an open rectangular window, down at the bustling street below, looking rather bored, like he'd rather be out and about with the frantic sea of cars and people then in my photography studio, which was probably true. I'm sure, by the way he carries himself, he's worked with higher quality photographers, ones with actual titles and awards. Notable ones.

"You don't have him yet?" my brother's voice is full of disapproval.

I let my silence answer him.

He sighs. "West-"

"I know." It's not like me to procrastinate. Not on a big project like this.

"Don't interrupt," he chastises me for my rudeness.

I continue to flick between the pictures, silently urging Gil to drop the subject. Lukas's intensity almost pierces me through. His royal blue gaze could slice you in half, break you emotionally from the inside out like a deadly poison drenched blade. Those eyes could make you feel like nothing in comparison, like you weren't worthy to even share the same planet. He cannot be paired up with just anybody. He'd overwhelm any model that I can think of.

"I assume that none of your usual models will do?"

Why does he even bother asking what he already knows? Though I can't even figure out why Gil seems to think that my business concerns him. I make note of a particular picture that stands out to me. I just have to add in one other model. I need someone to shine just as brightly as this Norwegian, someone who can stand on their own in a silent way, not cliche and filled with fake emotions.

"Consider placing an ad, West. You might find a diamond in the rough."

I get up from my crouching position on the edge of the draping backdrop, leaving my equipment where it is and walk past him, shoving him with my shoulder, scowl finding it's way onto my face. "You watch too much Disney, East."

I can hear the smile in his voice. "I know." He reaches back and ruffles my hair, even though he knows full well that I hate it when he does that.

Lukas makes a loud scoff as he turns away from the window, grabbing his three fourths of a water bottle off of a mostly clear table from beside his messenger bag and taking a long swig, probably wondering why he's even in this good for nothing place.

So am I.

… _**... … … ...**_

"Whoa, dudes! This place is amazing! Y'all have no clue how stoked I am to be here!"

I can feel a headache coming on. Oh please, God, let that not be the kid shadowing me. Oh please. The blond American's voice is too loud and obnoxious for this time in the morning, especially since everyone else on our floor of the police station shoots him clearly irritated glares. He's unaffected as he practically jumps up and down right in front of us in his worn leather bomber jacket, the smile across his face looks so large it might actually be hurting him. I wish.

"Sup, dude!" A hand smacks my back. "You must be the commie I'm following!"

Someone up there hates me. Was it the whole locking Nat in her room so she couldn't follow me to work thing? I wish I could say I'm sorry for that, but...I'm not.

I'm really not.

Yao tilts his head up slightly, glaring at me from under the brim of his hat, the slim Chinese man looking surprisingly intimidating with the fiery look in his honey brown eyes.

"Zhè shì nǐ de cuò!"

Great. Now he's mad, and won't speak English for a week.

I stare stubbornly at the sunflowers on my desk. Sestra must've replaced the old ones recently.

Why did I let Scot talk me into mentoring someone again?

Temporary insanity?

Won't hold up with Yao, though.

"Wǒ guài nǐ." Yao mutters, tipping the brim of his hat back down as he leans back in his chair.

This one I've heard enough to know what it means.

"I blame me too," I say under my breath as I leverage myself to my feet and turn to look into cornflower blue eyes.

The looking into part is the odd thing. My sestra has the same eyes. Not many people can look me in the eye, especially kids like this one. Either they're too short or they're too afraid.

This...child...is neither. This exuberant blonde stares confidently and blissfully unaware back at me, his pink lips pulled into an easy smile.

"Jones, I presume?"

He just claps me on the shoulder, "Just call me Alfred, bro! You and I are going to be spending a LOT of time together!"

I force a smile.

If this little ball of sunshine and annoyance doesn't kill me, Yao certainly will.

"Nǐ qiàn wǒ de."

"Bloody hell, Yao! Can't we get through one week without you boycotting the English language?"

I glance over to see our captain walking towards us from the direction of his office, shaking his head in mock disappointment. He knows full well what Yao's like. To be honest, I think he'd be surprised if Yao managed to make it through a week only speaking English at work.

"Jones, this is Captain Alastair Kirkland." I make the requisite introductions. "Scott, Alfred Jones."

The kid grins even wider (if possible) as he sticks out a hand to shake, "Pleasure to meet you, Scott!"

The redhead just looks at the boy with disdain. "Mister Jones, I dare not think that I gave you permission to use my first name."

The grin wilts, ever so slightly. I've got to have Scott teach me how to do that.

My boss looks at me, markedly making a point of ignoring Jones (Yao as well, since he was addressing me despite Yao being the senior officer in the partner, but Scott has said a thousand times that if Yao was going to pout and give them all the Chinese treatment, then he certainly isn't going to indulge him), "Ivan, I want you and Yao to take the inner-city route tonight. I don't expect anything to happen then, so Jones here shouldn't get banged up too bad. Remember, we're not allowed to dent him unless he's one of us." The Scottish accent pours thick into every word, his voice booming on the now semi-quiet floor.

I just nod and salute. This isn't my comrade Scott in front of me now; this is Director Kirkland.

But he goes back to being Scott fairly quickly as he turns onto one of the newcomers, a nervous and fidgety women who was busy filling out paperwork, "And you, my good dear, are going to be watching Arthur."

The policewoman gulps, but holds her tongue. Arthur Kirkland's slipperiness and ability to escape anyone watching him with ease is almost as legendary as the director's over-protective brother-complex. Though no one would think it, looking at the two of them...'interact' (brawl is closer to being the right word), Scott actually really cares about his little brother.

No one knew precisely why Scott decided to one day put his baby bro on what the redhead affectionately calls "The Babysitter List", though there is no shortage of theories, ranging from simply the big brother's prerogative to piss-off his younger siblings, to an actual concern for Arthur's safety. But for those who'd bring up the latter theory, they'd only be reminded by those who've watched Arthur that the younger man is very mild-mannered and never seems to do much more than go to work at the office and then back home to read. Just what sort of trouble could he get into, anyways?

… _**... … … ...**_

The blond man takes a deep pull on his smoke, leaning back in his chair as the nicotine relaxes him. A filthy habit, really. Luckily Francois only really indulges at times like these. He claims it's just to get him into character. It's not like it matters to Arthur one way or another. The Brit watches curiously as smoke flows around the two, lazily so. The drag goes with his partner's rugged and scroungy appearance, like they belong together. The man and his cigarette. Arthur notes the stubble on the Frenchman's chin; he obviously hasn't shaved in a few days. His partner was indeed in character, there wasn't anyway around it. He allows himself to join the man, allowing Oliver to take the forefront of his mind, a wide manic grin stretching his tight lips across his face. He lets his arms swing freely by his sides, rather than the tight clasp they had been in previously. His spine, while still in perfect posture, becomes less than ramrod straight. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Francois nod slightly in approval. He could almost hear Francis mentally chastising him for cutting it so close.

"Vargas-san will see you now." The British man practically falls off his chair. Someone needs to attach a bell to that darn man's neck! Kiku stares blankly from the doorway, his dark eyes calculating though reflecting nothing as he watches both men rise up from their seats. The Japanese man doesn't say a word as Francois and Oliver brush past him with ease, though Oliver didn't miss the cutting look he shoots from the corner of his eye, practically daring the Brit to try anything. The small man shouldn't be allowed to give such hateful looks, it's really unbecoming, but it's never stopped him before. But Oliver only shrugs mentally, and adds in the trademark bounce to his step.

Kiku isn't one you want to deal with, more likely avoid eye contact if you aren't Oliver Kirkland because Oliver Kirkland isn't afraid, of anything. He'd given up on that emotion a very distant time ago, back in his younger days.

Francois takes the lead down the familiar hallway, the yellowish glow of the lights flickering every few seconds giving the area an eerie glow. Oliver can see the faint smoke from the Frenchman's cigarette float up to the ceiling, before it disappears in the grime. At least the stink is all but unnoticeable amongst the putrid smell of rot in the walls. The dark brown carpet is noticeably stained, a sure sign that Vargas doesn't spend much time here for the man himself, in the few times that Oliver has seen him, has always been very groomed and polished and wouldn't be caught stepping a foot on this dingy floor. Every door in the dim hall is shut tight, their contents a complete mystery to the onlookers, though the only door that matters would be the one at the very end. The tall and looming dark frame with a sizable gash in the wood is the only one they needed because behind that door resides one Vargas. Kiku pushes open the door, and silently beckons them to enter the belly of the beast.

It's like a film noir, Oliver notes. Vargas always seems to have a flair for the dramatic. He stands across the room, his designer blazer and expensive slacks standing out against the dynamics of the building, his back to them as he ponders the filthy walls, his shoulders tense with disgust at the state of the meeting place.. Oliver doesn't know much about his shadowy boss, but there are some things that he's picked up on over the years, such as his finicky nature. His gloved finger snaps out, and tests the dust on the doorframe. His face turns, and Oliver notes the extremely displeased frown on the youthful face.

A large arm wraps around Oliver from behind, and he instinctively twists out of it, staring with irritation (Oliver doesn't glare, it's rude) at the large and tanned man that had snuck up on him with a smirk mingling with his dark features. No one that big should be that quiet. And while both parties continuously deny it, the Brit just KNOWS that Kiku has to have been the one to teach Sadiq that. He's not afraid of the stupid ninja, however, the only person that is creepier than Vargas is Mister Kuro. The things he's heard about that man...well, they give nightmares. As near as Oliver can tell, there are only three people that are comfortable around Kiku, and those are the boss man himself, Sadiq, and Elizaveta.

A deep chuckle rumbles its way up Sadiq's throat and bounces around the space surrounding them, a dark resonating echo. Sadiq has always had a laugh that sounds more at home in a horror movie, for all that whenever Oliver sees him, there's a massive grin on his face. Francois, snaps his cold eyes to the other man's face, frown lines making him appear much older and irritated than his thirty-three years. Elizaveta slinks her way in, sliding past the other man, pressing up against Francois in a way that made her smirk and his scowl grows even deeper. The brunette women has a few strands of hair pulled back with a pale pink flower pin matching her equally pink flowing blouse that she tucked into a white pencil skirt, creating an elegant tinge to her appearance, but the way her plump red lips are pulled up at the corners, a nasty smirk, completely destroy her facade. Francois harshly shoves her off of him and starts to mutter curse words in French under his breath, until, that is, Vargas finally decides to acknowledge them.

"Basta," he bites out, twisting on his heel to face them, his fedora pulled low over his face, though they can still see his trademark scowl. The room is quiet, the only sound being the footsteps of the latecomer, slow, plodding, unhurried. The door opens behind them, and Vargas lets loose one of his blades to send in quivering into the wood just above where Tino's head was previously, the blond man having dodged to kneel on the floor. The short man just smirks, snorting a bit as he rises to his feet. He grabs the still shivering knife, firmly yanking it from the wood and with a smooth motion, sends it spinning back towards Vargas, who just smoothly catches it by the blade, his expression never changing.

"You're late," he says, his cold voice sending shivers down Oliver's spine. He's not scared. To be frankly honest, the Brit views the Italian like he does the sea. Dangerous, beautiful, and something that will kill you if you don't afford it the proper respect. He's seen Vargas kill people for less than being late. He's not enough of an idiot to risk his life like that...especially when he's not the only one who would be adversely affected by his demise. Besides, with him gone, who else would keep the insufferable Frog in line?

Tino just shrugs. "Traffic."

Vargas rolls his eyes, making Oliver wonder once again just how old their seemingly ageless boss must be. Younger than him, he'd guess. And though Oliver loathes to be a cliche, there's something ancient in Vargas's eyes. Something that warns that he never makes empty threats. But moments like this, and Oliver can almost believe that the boss is barely out of his teens.

"I have an important job for you lot." Vargas is quick to the point, as usual. "And I am favoring a multiple-prong approach. You will know where each other is, but you will not know the final objective besides what you, individually, must do."

His sharp eyes focus on Sadiq, leaning bodily against the wall, and Elizaveta, shamelessly leaning against her partner causing her skirt to ride up in the most uncomfortable of ways. "Honey pot tactics, you two. Get Hedervary into this business," he nods to Kiku, who hands each of them a business card, "And ingratiate herself to the CEO and his partners. Adnan, you stick close after she's in, and be prepared to evacuate her if necessary."

The partners nod as Sadiq starts to absentmindedly play with Elizaveta's curls, a stoic expression on his face. Elizaveta bites her lip, and Oliver just knows that if she was a cat, she'd start to purr. In fact, if she was anywhere but here, she probably _would _be purring. Elizaveta then turns her attention to the print in her hand, eyeing the card as if it held the most valuable information, though, for her it did. She had to get herself into character like all of the fine actresses in their days.

Vargas removes his attention from the lucky partners, and settles his penetrating gaze onto Tino, who had settled himself onto the floor, feigning disinterest. Talented kid, but that attitude is going to get him killed if he's not careful.

"Tino." Boss has never even attempted the Finnish man's long and complicated last name. It wasn't worth it to him to be caught messing it up. It'd make him look foolish. And we can't have that. "I want you to embed yourself into the college scene. It'll put you in a good position for the kills I've got in mind for you."

The brat just smirks. The boss's eyebrow twitches, but he keeps quiet. He must really need Tino's skills for this, or else he wouldn't be putting up with this crap.

"Kiku," Vargas turns away from the Finn, gesturing for him to give the sniper the papers for his enrollment. And then he turns his gaze onto Oliver and Francois.

Somehow, Oliver doubted he is going to like this very much. Is the look in Vargas's eyes slightly more malevolent than usual?

"You two are to keep the polizia off our trail. Kiku will give you days and times periodically where I expect you two to make a big commotion, raise hell, and then get away again."

Ah bollocks. Keeping this all a secret from Alastair just got a hell of a lot harder.

… _**... … … ...**_

He plasters on the happy grin, because that's what they expect. He forces the limp out of his gait because that's not in his personality. He greets his friends with cheer and empty eyes as he runs his hands through his curly brown hair. And he prepares to pretend like he's having fun tonight.

He shaves the stubble off of his chin, and runs a brush through his golden locks. He sprays cologne to cover up the stink of old cigarettes and washes his face of the tired and worn appearance he's grown accustom to. He practices a carefree, flirtatious smile in the mirror before he enters the bar, waving casually at his friends. And he prepares to pretend like he's having fun tonight.

He feels the scarred edge of his shoulder under his jacket, making certain that it won't come loose. He makes himself smile and lets himself relax from his ramrod straight posture. It's just for one night, one night to pretend that the old pain never happened, that he's young and immortal again, that he's unbreakable. He pretends the light never left his eyes, pretends he's still airy and free. And he prepares to pretend like he's having fun tonight.

The three greet each other like they're 21 again, like it's the first night drinking in a bar again. Like those 12 years had never happened.

Like they are young again. And just for tonight, they will all pretend like everything's perfect, like they're having fun tonight.

And each of them will think they're completely alone in the world.

Gilbert downs good German beer, filling up his glass stein from the pitcher, his laugh loud and contagious. Antonio drinks glass after glass of dark red sangria, staining his lips bright red. And Francis somehow manages to look completely elegant, as he drinks massive amounts of cognac, winking at every pretty lady that walks by.

Sometime during the night, each of them has a lady on a knee, laughing at their jokes, running their fingers through their hair, leaving bright red lipstick stains all over their faces as they whisper drunken promises in the trio's ears. The boys all grin at each other, that old conspiratorial glint in their eyes as they party till 2 in the morning. The age old group continuing to be carefree, faking conversation and interests, trying desperately to maintain their younger selves. Neither happened to be focused on each other, the world spinning and gripping their own minds enough to forget about convincing the other two and more about convincing themselves.

And then they go their separate ways, each in a taxi with that girl ready to spend the night. And each of them direct the taxi to the woman's house and walk her through the door.

And then, they leave. Just like that.

One returns to his desk, and stares at the fragile bits of evidence that only connect by the finest silk of a spider's web. He gets maybe an hour of sleep in before he goes to work the next day, still trying to crack the Vargas case with a steaming untouched cup of coffee in one hand.

One goes home to his daughter, still awake and studying for her classes. He drops a kiss on her head, mussing her dark chocolate curls, and tells her to go to sleep. He gently guides her up from the island in the center of the kitchen, leaving her books astrew and flicking off the light. He walks her up to bed, her eyelids now heavy as she leans on her father, and tucks her in before he goes to his cold bed with drooping eyes and curls up alone.

And one does his best to keep from waking his brother, and does his normal pre-bed workout, checking his alarm clock to make sure that it's set for 5. He won't get much sleep tonight, but he can't let himself get out of habit. He takes off his shirt and unlatches his arm, leaving it at the bottom of his bed and applies a hot water bottle to his aching knee and finally goes to sleep.

And they know that they'll just do it all over again next week. Same time, same place. Just like always.

* * *

**Translations:**

_**~Italian~**_

**Fratello - Brother**

**Basta - Enough**

**Perché? - Why is that?**

**Mi dispiace - I'm sorry**

**Scusami - excuse me**

_**~Chinese~**_

**Zhè shì nǐ de cuò! - This is your fault**

**Wǒ guài nǐ.- I blame you.**

_**~Russian~**_

**sestra - sister**

**Thank you guys for reading! I hope you all enjoyed our first chapter. Do feel free to leave a review if you like, or PM either one of us!**

**Until next time my loves!**


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